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“Do you have any reason why I shouldn’t be?”
Without thinking, and not intending it as a taunt, Bunk began to hum “Hey, Nineteen,” under his breath. He never knew what would make him get these songs in his head: he could just be reading, or hearing something from the chat shows his wife watched, and it could be lodged there for hours. Given that he was murder police, he supposed he could get stuck with something more toxic, but that only made the habit slightly less annoying.
“Bunk,” Jimmy said, in that serious tone that Bunk knew was the first sign his friend and partner had had more than a few too many. “I’ll forgive you anything. Except Boz Skaggs.”

Current Mood: relieved

Faith doesn’t exactly haul ass across the country once her call comes in. She’s living by her wits in Boston, keeping half an eye on her mother more than her mother kept on her. It’s pointless; they do nothing but fight, so she ends up meeting some stuffy Brits in a motel room that smells like adultery, musky aftershave and instant coffee. She doesn’t think they are the same stuffy Brits, though, that explained why she was so much faster, and so fucking fearless, compared to the other kids in her nabe. (She hoped they didn’t remember Ma, with her bubble-gum lipstick all around her mouth but on her lips, trying to make peace since deep down, her mother knew just why she’d shattered “Uncle Ray’s” fucking stubby fucking fingers.)

That day, though, it had been like a sick kind of birthday wish. If neither of them admitted it, maybe they can go on in the same way. Maybe even pretend they are like other families and the next time Mom stopped drinking it would take, instead of being measured in days or weeks.

All of this is on Faith’s mind as she faces the pasty Brits, male and female, glasses on both. “Yeah?” she says, knowing they’d hate it. She is torn about whether to slouch or stand super-tall and thrust her tits in their faces. She slouched.

“Mz. Lehane, we need you to get to California, post-haste. The previous Slayer just drowned.”
Faith smiled, not at the thought of someone’s death(Not except Ray’s; she will never feel bad about that. Except that she didn’t cause it, maybe. Nasty little perv.) But she was finally going to get her turn.

“Happy birthday to me.” The Watchers made a face, then, as if they blamed her for the smell of the place. It only slightly dampened the feeling, like a birthday candle of pride, at getting her turn.

“Pardon?” The man said. “Frightful odor in this place.”
“Maid’s day off. If I’m gonna cross the country, I’m gonna need some money.”
“I hardly think…” the woman said, then closed her mouth and opened it again.

Current Mood: lazy

My Grosse Pointe Blank update...
https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044986/chapters/57858823

Current Mood: pleased

Kay Howard thought she might be the last woman on earth to be at a lunch talking about work/life balance. True, she was a sergeant, but the zeal that had led her to success on the street, and in theory had gotten her here, had kept her from being the kind of smooth-haired, soft-voiced grade-grubbing type that departments liked to make deputy chiefs out of. It was finally getting easy to admit that, whatever her rookie’s dreams of a limitless future might have been and how much work she’d put into the task(including, she noted with some intellectual satisfaction, really high test scores), she’d probably climbed as high she could on the chilly metal ladder of the Baltimore Police Department. Much like the little bits of shrapnel left in her body from the shooting, the realization only hurt once in a while.

Also, until recently, apart from a brief epiphany following being shot, there hadn’t been much to balance. A few affairs, and, like Danvers, snatched dating that felt like affairs. Work had been everything. Now it wasn’t, though she still liked finding a challenge and digging in hard, which must be what got her invited to this little shindig, and maybe, what made her crazy enough to finally say yes, instead of letting the invitation be one of the few brightly-colored things in her wastebasket.

Out of habit, she studied the other panelists. Even though she had taken trouble with her look today, she could see that some of the other women held some sort of style secret she didn’t. Her basic black felt like a waitress uniform in some indefinable way. When Kay was in high school, she’d had a black-and-white dress that she’d loved until she’d gone to some school dressy occasion and worn what the waitresses had on.
In those days, the realization had gotten her back up, but lately she’d been cribbing from Bayliss’ endless store of meditation techniques, and was able to think about it calmly. All the same, she’ll be happy not to see any waitstaff until she’s done speaking. She was still nervous, but she hoped it didn’t show. Maybe it did a little because the little moment that often accompanied microphones with the squeal of feedback got more of a a snicker from the crowd than usual.

Hello,” Kay said. “I’m Sergeant Kay Howard, and I don’t know about anyone else here, but I’d be more comfortable on a drug corner right now.” She suddenly wished Munch hadn’t had to be in court in New York today. She could count on him to find her funny, even sometimes when she wished he wouldn’t. If Quinn were here, at least it would be easier to feel that a little social awkwardness wouldn’t be the worst thing she could face in a room full of cops.
She’d known bits and pieces about his shooting incident; there was a small community, and if there were anything cops liked more than drinking, it was gossip. They weren’t any better than citizens, though, at separating what they saw from their own prejudices. People called Terry careless, and, in one persistent ignorant internet loudmouth’s case, continued to imply everything from Quinn being dirty to his being high on cocaine. None of which she’d noticed, but given how she’d met him, she figured that her comments would not be welcomed.
With a guilty flush, she understood why she sometimes found Munch hunched over his laptop muttering to himself. Some of these online people were out of their minds.

No wives. No understandings.” He smiled that winning, slightly crooked smile, and she wanted to share some of the naughty thoughts that seemed to flash through, she hoped, both of their minds, but a more basic urge caused her to sprint, as she hadn’t since her early days in uniform, to his bathroom(Which seemed clean enough, thank God, but she didn’t turn the lights on, just in case.) “Hold that thought!”

For a moment, she felt a little dizzy and sick, but the feeling passed.It was as if she got to be the girl who drank with the watermen without many ill-effects. Like a night in a time machine.
She was astounded, though, to come out and find that drunk and lust-crazed, and on a night off besides, she still managed to plug in her phone. Maybe she had something of a problem with it. Although Munch calling it an umbilicus still struck her as over-the top.

”You have eight new messages.” The anonymous tinny voicemail woman’s voice said. A little high for a night not spent at work, but when she got more than one text alert, her eyes went wide as though she were some kind of peasant that hadn’t ever seen one of the glowing boxes.

Quinn watched her, bringing her a sweating bottle of cold water with a little piece of lemon floating in it.

“Quinn, you’re a god. I swear you’re going to make me come all over again.”

“Um, you mentioned that you needed this before,” he flushed a little. “ But could you stick around and need stuff? Kind of loving the way you say thank you. Even with your skirt on.”
“I’m glad. “ She gasped while looking at the phone. She took a huge swig of water, and kind of flicked her fingers like she was fanning herself.
“Everything okay at home?” Terry asked. “I feel weird about asking cause if it had been last night…” He gestured as if erasing the unmade bed they’d just left.
“He texted me. I didn’t even know he could. Of course, he doesn’t get it…it’s a thread of about twelve messages telling me a long story of what an idiot he’s been, but the thought counts. Usually I get texts from my niece and nephew.

Kay woke up parched, wondering where she was, and oddly transfixed by a cobweb catching the late-morning light from its resting place hanging from Terry Quinn’s ceiling. Although she was no domestic goddess herself, she tsked a bit about that. Irregular as they tended to be, she had enough cleaning jags that she really felt there was no excuse for that.

She had the beginnings of a headache and some throbbing from the use of muscles she’d forgotten that she had—although things in that department were still good with Munch overall, they had settled into a pattern where they weren’t trying tons of new things, and it showed now as she was feeling stretched, literally.
.
She was also huddled quite close to a sleeping Quinn, who, as she thought about getting up, mumbled something and came in even closer. However much they had both felt like lone wolves at the bar, it appeared they were both no longer used to sleeping alone…however much she might prize the occasional weeknight when Munch stayed behind in New York to handle casework and left her with the remote, a little quiet, and a big bed all to herself.

She had also liked the feeling of Quinn next to her, which was personally satisfying if not the thought of a guilty girlfriend(woman friend? Eh, everything she tried to come up with to describe what they were seemed either foolish or old-fashioned to her ears) shaking off both her pique and the realization that she had picked a really stupid fight.
Possibly for no reason, though, the pictures in her brain of the inciting incident were blurred by emotion, hormones and, you know, the tide of beer, both foreign and domestic, that she first tippled than slurped. Even so, Munch was maddening, so it wasn’t quite for no reason, she was sure about that.So, how had she given in so easily, and then slept so well with someone else? Besides draining half the beer in the District? Seriously, when she glanced at the paper or half-listened to the news in the next day or so, she’d expect to hear or read about shortages. But one thing she braced for from her young woman’s adventures that wasn’t present(aside from the fact that the beer was more expensive) was shame. She turned it around in her head enough that Quinn awakened…his gaze affectionate and green, but just ever-so-slightly unfocused.
She hated to hear some kid’s voice in her head, but wow, he was still cute. On the other hand, beer goggles would be easier to laugh off and shove into some part of her brain that felt like an overflowing chest of drawers from all the unwanted thoughts she kept stuffing back in it. Terry Quinn’s six feet whatever and those clear green eyes wouldn’t fit in there. Damn.“Kay! You’re still here.”
“Do you, like, need me not to be? Are you married or something…without some kind of…understanding or whatever. Because I could pee and throw my clothes on in ten minutes flat…if I could trouble you for some water first. It’s been a while, but I’ve actually timed it.” Better to sound like a slut than all- thumbs Katie Howard who led when she slow-danced.
“No wives. No understandings.”

Current Mood: creative

“Well, fuck you, too,” Kay Howard told her silent cellphone. Munch could be such an asshole sometimes. And then, he would do something that would make her absolutely livid pissed, like stand her up after she spent so much time looking forward to seeing him, and just keep fucking talking, blah, blah,blah, Apollo, Descartes, who gave a shit? You’d think he would learn from all those suspects. You’re already in trouble, shut the fuck up.
She hadn’t been this angry since she stopped working day-to-day with Meldrick and Detective Mikey(Which,lapsed Catholic as she was, and as upset about getting jerked off her turf in Homicide still occasionally caused a hymn of praise to pass her lips. As those preachers on TV say “Thank ya, Jesus.”) She’d learned this much from what happened with her and Ed. Don’t say the first thing that comes to mind. Danvers still looked scared sometimes when he saw her. So she’d intended on just a short drive, but she ended up in some watering hole in the District somewhere, just like powered by frustrated libido and rage. She looked great tonight, too. Green blouse(Carrie would be proud, her thinking of a shirt as a blouse...maybe she was a real girl after all) dressy black pants and short black boots.”He will be begging for this,”she mumbled, unaware she’d spoken aloud. Yeah, right, Munch begging. He probably went home with one of those arty, educated clicks with a real difficult job like having a man pour chocolate on her on stage. Munch thought that was art. Kay thought it was bullshit. But she was probably a twelve-year-old gymnast who didn’t have a chest all pasted together with Super Glue.
She caught one break. This was not a shitkicker bar. She was so done with the billy thing, just from work, that she hated to go in somewhere and hear some braindead brag about kicking Arab ass.There was just part of her that just ached to throw Toby Keith against the front of a patrol car because his attitude sucked and could stand a humble. “Not tonight though...I’d probably fuck him.” And because that thought was disgusting, she took a big swallow of beer. “Or shoot him.” she thought, and smiled.
She watched the door, habit dying hard. A man crossed over to the bar, about her age, give or take, blond, but with that skin that was like carrying the map of Ireland on your body. He was either on the Job or a wannabe...he had the walk, the eye. It had been years since he walked in somewhere and couldn’t find the fire exit. Kay didn’t have the strength for wannabes tonight, the kind that thought they were hot because they have scanners and bonecrunching handshakes. Of course he sat right next to her. Kay sighed.
“Don’t take this wrong,” he said, and when he looked over she was struck by how beautiful his green eyes were.” But you have great hair.”
“I’ll bet you’re an artist,” she said. “With original lines like that.” She made a point of looking at her mug, even though looking at him was hardly a hardship.”A poet, hmm?”
The man sighed. “Does bullshit count?”He reached for the peanuts. “I’m sorry...I’m an investigator and it’s been a rough day...the line to castrate me forms up the street.”
“Don’t eat those...” Kay advised. “My boyf...well, tonight he’s the man I want to kill says they’re nasty. People don’t wash their hands and stick their hands in anyway, if you believe the Munchkin.”
“Does this Munchkin ever tell you to do things?” Quinn said. “Thanks for the tip, but I’ll live dangerously.” And he cracked a peanut and stuck it in his mouth, which Kay found herself fascinated by.”We eunuchs often do.”
“He doesn’t tell me to do enough...why do you think I’m here?”
“To remind me that everything in life isn’t completely terrible, I think.”
“My God, and I was just such a bitch to you.” And that smile broke out across her face, rare and perfect. Damn, should have led off with that. The hair was quite a scene-stealer, but surely she knew that. “Some thin blue line I am.”
“I’ve not been a cop for years...how’d you know?”Terry asked.
“Keen detective instincts....nah somehow you just look like po-lice. A little better than most, huh? Kay Howard, Fugitive Squad, Baltimore PD.”
“Terry Quinn,” He waited for her to connect the dots...make him “that cop” but she didn’t. Crazily, he thought “Of course, you find people that are lost...no, hiding.” But he couldn’t say that...he just met her. He bought her more beer instead.
”Well, Terry,” She shook his hand, which thank god, he did like a normal person, not determined to prove that he had a twelve inch dick of steel, “Let’s start over.”
“You have great hair.”
“Well, I hear that a lot, but thank you. I could really use a compliment tonight.”
”I understand...with the bloodlust and everything.” Anything you want, if you smile like that. His hand still tingled from her touch, even though, unlike Sue, her hand was calloused and her nails ragged and unpolished. That was even sexier. In school, he’d had quite a thing for tomboys. It was a good thing she didn’t know about him. There must have been quite a shadow over his own face because she said “Hello? Earth to Quinn...you cheer up anymore, a funeral’s gonna break out, babe. No, not babe...hon. What? I start looking good to you, or something? Because I can’t...I have...”
“From the beginning. And I have, too”
“So, just friendly, huh?” Oh, Kay, she thought, lie to other people, not to you. Because in that instant, she knew she was going to fuck the brains out of Terry Quinn. Just to feel pretty again.
“OK...so, friendly gestures. And we shook already...hm. I, Terry Quinn, promise to be a complete gentleman. Pinkie swear.” And before Kay knew what she was doing, she’d linked her little finger with his. It... didn’t feel like she remembered it.
“Um, that wasn’t supposed to be hot, was it?”
“So glad you asked. If it always felt like that, I should have done more than play marbles with Billy Sullivan all those years ago.”
Kay cracked up. “What? I may have been a cop but I have cable. I know it’s okay to say stuff like that. Practically metrosexual. Metrosexuals are very in...says so in the City Paper.”
She enjoyed his casual humor. Munch was brilliant, but sometimes he could keep a conversation going for longer than Howard felt was healthy, and she probably knew more about Momo Giancana than his mama, besides. “Two questions...” she asked, trying to keep her composure. And nobody was as sure Munch was brilliant as Munch. This guy didn’t have that problem.
“Am I gonna need a lawyer for this?” he joked. She liked that he was a little bit wiseassed.
“Have you done anything that makes you think you need one?” She gave him a little cop attitude back.
“Not lately.”
Somebody put a song on the jukebox, one of Derek’s, he knew that, but his brain was a little scrambled. He couldn’t place it, but he was surprised when this gorgeous redhead, whose hair he was actively restraining himself from touching, heard a few notes and said “You Make Me Feel Brand-New”.
”Really? Because I was just going to say...”
“The song. The Stylistics. Although some people would argue it’s not their best work.”
“My partner would love you...he’s a real fiend for that stuff. It’s grown on me too, though.”
“OK,” she said, “Joke’s over...I know this one song because my sister tried to teach me to slow dance to it in middle school. I was hopeless...”
He wanted to ask why, tell her she looked like she moved just fine, but if he did, he might just want to have her on this counter.
“I kept trying to lead.’ She said, as if she could read his mind.” And the best work thing? You’re gonna laugh.”
“I like to laugh,” he said, looking serious like Timmy in spite of himself.
“Munch told me once if you’re in a social situation and feeling all awkward, you should find something to comment on and say that.”
”Why should you feel awkward? I’m a nice guy.” He gestured. “This is a nice place.”
“What do you think of the Kennedy assassination?”
“Why? It’s ancient history now. Can’t fix it anyway.”
“Perfect answer.” Kay stood up, relieved she didn’t stumble any.(Being off Homicide had affected her capacity.) “Because almost since we started talking, I’ve wanted to do this.” And she covered his lips and tongue with an epic kiss. Quinn, off balance, gasped out of pleasure and breathlessness. “Hey,” he gasped. “that wasn’t in the rules.”
“Got you on a technicality,” Howard said. “I can’t swear to be a gentleman.”
“No, no, you can’t. Or a lady either...you feminists.. wanting to make your own rules.”
“Damn straight. And I can tell how much it bothers you, too.”
“Is my body betraying me again?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Terry. It may be the beer, or my keen detective instincts, but I’d say “yes.”
“Remind me to feed it better next week.”
The moment lasted until the bartender, a friend of Strange’s none too pleased to only see the tempramental white boy in here on his lonesome, barked “Get a room, y’all.”. He was secretly relieved that he found the one kind of trouble guaranteed to keep even an investigator’s mind off racial politics for one night.
“Follow me home?” Quinn asked. “Although beautiful things happen when you lead. Damn. Your sister is an idiot.”
“You have no idea.”
When they walked off together, Terry noticed she was smaller than she looked, but he sensed it was a mistake to act protective.He did watch her as she paid, from the back. He was an investigator, paid to notice details and that detail was as fresh as a summer nectarine.”Hey, you didn’t have to buy my drink. I may be a rent-a-cop but I have real money, sweetheart.”
”Don’t want to owe you anything. And don’t call me sweetheart.”
Oh, Christ, Quinn thought, another one of those. But she’s gorgeous and she drinks beer like water, and her smile, not that he’d seen it for a while, was like a religious experience. He instantly regretted all those times he’d gotten on Derek’s back about being monogamous.Some women were just born temptations, that’s all there was to it.”If loving you is wrong, I don’t want to be right,”he thought, and then thought he spent way too much time with Strange.
“Ok, so now I owe you. Name your price.” He felt all giddy, he felt fifteen, even though Detective Howard couldn’t have been a further cry from his teenaged fantasy girls with their stillettos and giant tits. But she licked her lips, covered in the palest pink gloss, and he swore if she wanted to drag him around by his balls he would have to grit his teeth and let her do it. This was the kind of shit that got Sam Cooke killed, Strange would say, right after he got done laughing his ass off.
She considered longer than expected and there was a frown line between her eyebrows.”Okay,” she said, “what were you doing that there was a line of people after your basket tonight? Besides this?”
“Wow, you really lay it on the line, don’t you?”
“Yeah...it’s your lucky night, huh?” And he could swear she winked, but she wasn’t the type.
“My job sucks. Having to make up stories to get kids and grandmothers to talk to me...well you know....and this one girlfriend got mad.”
“Girlfriends are the worst. What can I do to take your mind off it?”
“Dance with me.”
“I expected an answer from somewhere lower.” Kay said, and she did sound surprised.
“I’m not just a stud horse, you know.”
“Modest too,” she replied.
”At my age, I have picked up a few skills,” Terry admitted, and shrugged.
Quinn’s place wasn’t far from the bar. It occurred to Kay to say he had a nice place here, but he hadn’t, especially. It was neat, but aside from this, bore the untended aspect of every single cop’s place, hers included, except when she gave into the occasional girly urge and bought candles. He did have a nice stereo, and more CD’s than anyone outside a music store or her brother Josh. He opted for the deja vu and the Stylistics filled the apartment.”May I have this dance?” he said, with an exaggerated bow.
She laughed. If he thought her smile was great...”You’re not serious?”
“The hell I’m not...the way I figure it your whole gender owes me a break today...woman chased me with a frying pan, okay? All right, so the bow was too much...run me in... fuck up my license...get me out of this gig.” Kay was made breathless by his fucking amazing smile which she had never seen. What the hell went wrong in this man’s life to make him like Tim Bayliss in a mortuary? But for tonight, the questions were somebody else’s problem.
“Let me get this straight,” she teased. “I’m paying for the sins of some yoette with a frying pan? That’s not right.”
“More right than you fucking me to get back at your Munchkin.”
She sighed. Well, if he was going to get all ethical about it. “OK.”
Quinn fiddled with the stereo and got “You Make Me Feel Brand New,” back on again.
“What’s with you and that song?”
“Don’t know. Maybe it’s our song.”
”We’re a one-night stand. We don’t get a song.”
“For tonight we do. A one-night song.”
“You know, Quinn, I’m supposed to be the chick.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” He held her close and sniffed her hair. It was making him feel like a fetishist how much he wanted to. “Yum, Christmas trees.”
Was she blushing? No way. “ My sister sends it to me. She says it’s balsam.”
“She may be an idiot, but she has terrific taste in shampoo. I know just the package I want to put under those Christmas trees.”
“What if I’ve been bad?"